


This music and this dawn

by redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Brock is not a jerk, Bucky is becoming more aware, Hydra safe house, M/M, a fateful night of the latter, alternate forms of pain control, angst and sex, burns (previously acquired), flashbacks to cryo, handjobs, hurt comfort, just struggling to cope, pre-Civil War, queen of not admitting his feelings, shovelfuls of the former, truly ugly nursing unifroms, who is the handler now?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7283974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This music makes me want.”  </p><p>Want?  </p><p>Oh…</p><p>The Winter Soldier and his handler....and the other ghost who comes between</p>
            </blockquote>





	This music and this dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garotteandgoodnight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=garotteandgoodnight).



> For Zara who wanted BuckyxBrock either Post-WS pre-CaCW in a Hydra safe house or WS: in the Cryo chamber/hydra secret facility inside Shield.
> 
> I gave her a little of both….
> 
> Happy Birthday darling ...only a few weeks late..
> 
> Hugs and kudos to bekaylo and mollynoble for comments and critters

A rather solid looking and grimly efficient nurse walked in.  Brock did not recognize him.  After a month of constant care and unrelenting pain he thought he knew everyone who might bring his next dose but this person was new. 

“My drip isn’t done…” he began but a latex-covered hand was raised imperiously as a code yellow came over the PA. 

The dark head tilted and an ear was cocked.   “Shush…”    

Oh gods.   A tiny thrill of hope and fear fluttered in his chest.   He knew that motion.  It was the Soldier listening for intel, focusing on reconnaissance and brooking no interruption. 

Brock peered more closely at the eyes above the mask.  They **were** the exact shade of seafoam blue..disconcertingly light for one so dark.   The Soldier’s  hair tied into a sloppy bun and  a stethoscope was looped around his neck. A fresh IV bag was crooked into his elbow just like he did this every day.  

Not bad acting for someone just this side of human,  though it was clearly a hastily improvised disguise.  It took all of Brock’s feeble muscle control to stifle a building full-bellied laugh.   Winter must have more of a sense of humour than he had ever realized.   The ‘borrowed’ uniform tunic was graced with both Iron Man and Captain America on the front.  It was fine in its own in an overly bright, patriotic way, but truly paired with the celestial, milky way uniform pants it was just priceless.

Eyewateringly bad. 

Brock sighed and slipped down lower on the pillow, shifted unconfortably for the zillionth time that day.   So much for incognito, but what could you expect from a guy who only ever wore grey and black?   He’d have to have a word with the Soldier about his skills of observation if they were going on the run. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

The relief, in the end, almost made him want to sob…

To lie on a bed that does not raise all on its own, to be still in utter blessed quiet might just be better than sex.   He’s left the noise and antiseptic smell of the hospital behind.  There is no constant beeping.  No pained sighs or moaning from the other unfortunates of the unit.  But most of all, no more daily waiting for the other shoe to drop.   

He would have laughed at the sheer bliss of being free but that would just jossle parts that seriously complained to move.  The last read on his gps placed him pancaked in the Triskelion’s ruins with his singed ID.  They did not have his name and he’d not been so stupid as to give it up.  The fake name had thrown them for a little while, but each day that had passed, each surgery, there was the risk that they would have asked more questions, delved deeper into who he was.  The subtle queries, probing the limits of his ‘amnesia’ had been exhausting. 

Someone had to be running lists of those in hospital versus the missing agents even while they’ve got bigger fish to fry for a little while..

Brock was out of there, away from the constant danger.   Safe at last.  Or at least safe as a Hydra fugitive could be these days in a ‘safe’ house hidden in plain sight.  Columbia Heights was not so far from the Potomac but mercifully close to Med Star hospital.  Just a few stops on the Green Line to the much touted new metro station, the anchor to the ‘revitalization’ of DC’s most troubled, most diverse neighbourhood.   He’d had to smile at that.  He and Winter had walked slowly up, out into the old streets, and found it changed all around: weirdly gentrified, thronged with smart young things who breezed past the blue collar stiffs. The old Tivoli theatre was still there but now pockets of fancy condos had sprung up like alien monoliths amongst the grand old mansions of another century’s judges and top generals.  The brick oldsters had been home to a thriving community until the King Riots and White flight had swapped the elegant, timeless row house fronts for boarded-up, peeling pastel facades, that looked for all the world like faded ballgowns on passed-over debutantes. 

He wouldn’t put it past Pierce to have pulled strings to get that metro line, the one that made all the difference, the one that made the value of the honeycomb of Hydra properties go up too because a rising tide floats all boats.   In the new millenia Columbia Heights was “in” and he’d just bet that the Director was sitting somewhere nice and pretty, drinking his fancy whiskey and counting the profit he’d made from all his dealings both above and underground.     

Assuming he’d survived of course. 

Brock sighed.  Of course he had.  The planning and execution had been nearly perfect..or as perfect as it could be in the face of known unknowns and unknown unknowns.   He had tried to tell them that they underestimated Cap but he’d been overruled and told to shut his trap. 

None of them could have predicted that the Soldier would finally fail a mission.

It was obvious in retrospect that contact with Rogers was doing _something_ to Winter’s circuitry.   He, of all people, knew that the Soldier was never wiped as clean as they truly thought--the whispered welcomes on regeneration, the yearning press into his hands spoke tellingly of that.  The Asset was not a machine- how ever much the techs tried to treat him that way- but Brock had not thought the remembrance of another life ran quite so deep.  Flashes of memory came so thick and fast in the days before the fall (along with a stronger need to question) that someone should have begun to suspect, but like all of them  Brock had been too busy with his own shit to pay too close attention.   And well, maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t wanted to.

_When you cared for someone you wanted what they wanted didn’t you?_

“You need to nap.”  Winter ordered once they had stopped, got Brock into the quiet of this room, pulled up the light blanket and cupped the good cheek with a large, chill hand and turned out the light. 

_Yes, sir._

It was clear that their dynamic had slightly changed.  He had done as ordered: closed his eyes and hunkered down, genuinely tired after their short walk to the yupified townhouse off Park.  He had been so bleary that the fact that Winter had done all the talking to the nosy neighbour ( _yes ma’am, my Uncle’s still lucky to be evangelizing in Africa_ ) hadn’t really registered.   Nor the way Winter had dumped their meagre kit, peeled Brock’s clothing off, checked all the bandages and stashed a small pharmacy’s worth of prescription med in the table beside the bed.

He closed his eyes and tried not to regret too hard. Tried not to think how Winter was not the one of them getting used to new body.

It was startling.  But true. _Who is the handler now?_  

 

\---------------------

 

The smell, sharp anise and bright sweet basil, dragged him up into awareness, groggy and jittery because _Jesus christ_ he was not ready for the outside world if the sound of a door opening did not wake him up. 

He stomach added insult to injury.   It grumbled loudly as the humid rush of steam from the bowl beside the bed wafted past.  He blinked up into familiar eyes above an unfamiliar shirt. 

“What did you get?”

“Pho,”  answered the red henley and ponytail.  _Nice._   Just like every other yuppie strolling the spruced-up sidewalks.   No murderous, half-robot assassin here.   

Said assassin sat on the edge of the bed and carefully helped him to sit up.  The spoon took work but dammit he had his pride and his fingers could still bend.

“My god..this is great.”   Brock’s taste buds sang the praises of the second generation family and their hole-in-the wall noodle shop.  It is light:  easy on his over-doped stomach;: real homemade broth and noodles amongst the generous shreds of fresh chicken.

Winter nodded, steadying the bowl upon his lap.  “Everything you could want in a block or two.  Latino, southern, french bistro..”

At least they won’t starve ‘til he’s ready to be on the move.  Brock’s pretty sure Winter can’t really cook and he’s not in shape to commandeer the stove.  Take-out it will have to be.

 “How do you feel?”  The gruffness of the question is belied by the worry in blue eyes.

He follows the policy they’ve always had.  Honesty as far as prudence will allow.

“Not like I want to drag my skin off for the pain.” 

They had long perfected a language comprised entirely of stolen looks-the Soldier had known the furrow between black brows was frustration but the deeper one beside amber eyes was pain.  Brock tried his usual scowl but the skin wouldn’t move.  The comically lopsided dirty look was, unsurprisingly, ignored--Winter understood this, too.  He nodded slowly but kept the vial already ready on the tray for _when_.  The scarring, the shortness of breath and hoarse voice were permanent but the worst of the pain should subside in time.   Just not quite yet.   Brock’d had the lecture from the specialist on the ward. Don’t let a steady level of control slip away or the breakthrough pain could send you down, down deep to a place built by heavy desperation.  

 “It’s not too bad, ” he mumbled. _Too_  being the operative word.

Staying still and focusing on the subtle play of light across shining metal plates was a useful distraction. 

The small, fond smile that flickered briefly on bow-shaped lips felt like a lifeboat for a drowning man.

\---------------

 

The weeks slipped by. 

June graced DC’s shimmering asphalt streets with a haze of humidity that was too hot, too painful on scarred and healing skin, and so the _ex_ -Hydra agents mostly stayed bunked and cool inside.  No one had bothered to search them out; no sudden pounding assaulted the pale lilac mullioned door.  

In the long languid nights they tried not to think about the meaning of this peacefulness.  The ones they know were likely gone.  The ones they feared were too busy pulling secret bases down…

They ventured out in the early morning or evening air, holding hands for disguise, just another couple hoping theirs is an up-and-coming street.  Mr. Coleman, the elderly greengrocer on the corner, put fresh figs aside for ‘Daniel’ on Wednesdays because his Ma in Baton Rouge always said they were great for healing.  Mrs. Wilson, who fancied  ‘Stewart’s’ eyes,  made sure to keep them a copy of the fast-vanishing Metro Weekly because wasn’t that what all ‘her boys’ read and it was important to stay top of the latest trends.  (Once she had to blush and turn away because ‘Stewart’, possibly overcome by the lingering evening light in ‘Daniel’s’ amber eyes,  suddenly bent down and pressed a kiss to a pair of startled lips.  The red-haired woman who walked quickly by looked similarly nonplussed.) 

One particularly sultry eve they did not bother to go out.  The sun had finally fallen past the chimney tops and cast deep purple shadows on the tiny rooftop balcony.  Brock sat half sprawled across Winter’s lap, clad in nothing but his boxer shorts while the day’s fifth coat of moisturizer was gingerly applied to the crazy quilt of hypertrophic scars.   

Into the soft blanket of the torpid air Tom Waits’ nicotine-soaked voice growled softly about a Gun Street Girl.

The lazy bluesy swirl of guitar was almost, _almost,_ enough to take Brock’s mind from the task at hand each time a whisper thin layer was massaged into the map of pain.    

“Winter! Don’t waste it on parts not scarred. ”  

Flesh fingers had traveled teasingly onto unblemished skin.  His admonishment was more for safety than economy-it would not do to visit the pharmacy too many times-but this time the callused fingers stilled.

“My name is James.”   

This startling assertion was low and quiet but might as well have been a shout.   Brock looked up, neck muscles protesting the sudden jerk, but that was not what nearly made him gasp.

A keen certainty, a new awareness lurked, jaguar-like, in his partner’s eyes.   The knowledge of it was sweet and sour, like an apple picked too soon, and just like that unripe fruit, it made a sharp pain linger in his stomach. 

The _other_ name, the one scratched into old dog tags that he’d touched just once in the secret file, was not the one that was offered up.

He could not linger on the hurt.  It was Winter’s, _James’_ , name to tell.   He forced himself to let that worry flutter free.  It was  a boomerang, it would return; but for the moment he could not see it.  Questing fingers moved again and traveled further down his hip.

“This music makes me want.” 

Want?  What did he mean?

_Oh…_

James’ head fell forward.  The curtain of soft brown hair obscured his frown of concentration as satin metal boldly ploughed incongruously delicate strokes across the fabric of Brock’s shorts. 

_Oh…_

Not all his nerves were burned insensible. The touch to his cock and soft buzz of lips across his throat combined to steal his breath away.    “James…”  He tried the sound out when he could snatch air back again.   “Are you sure?” he asked, looking into hazy eyes At least one of them had to have courage for the hill.

“Of course baby…” 

The quick assurance was rough with Brooklyn and desire.  That tone and increased tempo of the strokes should have put his mind at ease, but after hurried, stolen glances in the mirror nothing could quell the twinning vines of doubt.    

“Even how I look…?”   Shit, he hadn’t meant to say it straight out loud, but how can anyone want a man who looks almost like a piece of meat?  

The fingers of his better hand were raised up to curl against James’ chest.  The half-smile was wistful but the wintergreen eyes were blooming black.

“You never complained about me…”

Didn’t he?  No, well,  Brock supposed he hadn’t.  But then  Winter ( _James_!) had not been scarred.   Grey and wrinkly yes.  Thinner because he always lost some weight during cryostasis-it took energy to keep the cell walls intact-and hilariously uncoordinated.  Brock had truly never minded.   Those were _their_ moments…all he got in his mission to bring the Soldier some sense of self.  Stolen from on the ledger and all too precious to waste on superficialities.

It was, as always, about _him_. 

Going under was the dark time.  The moments of careful prep before a freeze were for neither of them.    The suits stood at their backs, watching every move; the quick washing and careful inventory had been already done.   Loving then would have been impossible.   Just being in that chamber made Brock’s desire flee.  The haunted eyes, the screams.., _No_..  He always made himself stay to watch, carefully correct and circumspect, while panicked looks had streamed his way.  

(If eyes were a window to the soul then in the chamber Brock’s  were a vault that had slammed right shut.) 

Coming out was altogether different.  The sight of Winter’s just warmed skin was always startling.  As handler it was his job to steady the Soldier in the shower, help warm him up, wash off the contact gel, and begin a hurried run through of the triggers.  Thank heaven the spray on full was noisier than fuck.  He’d always started loud.   Enunciated carefully then mumbled and finally stopped halfway through.  They both knew that when the pristine, clean Soldier stepped from the stall all option would be gone. 

Heart pounding, he would give Winter a minute to collect himself, to breathe, and then the litany would begin.   _Love you baby.  Missed you._   _Need you now._   As always the subject awoke ramrod straight and aching hard, and Brock’s soft soapy hands would run everywhere, insistently as they could, giving a human touch to words that dare not be said aloud.  It was fine for the Soldier to rattle on ( _wasn’t he addled as flaming fuck after all?_ ) but for his handler to care so much?  Impossible.  That was one way ticket to the Pit and then where would either of them be?

A few muffled groans, sometimes a howl, and the evidence was washed away. Sometimes Brock wanted to follow it down the drain.

In the early days he had cared for a body and not a personality.  Winter had not been truly human, not at first.  But then with each longer session in the shower, each stolen moment of humanity, the little defiances began to trickle out:  snarky jokes and sometimes filthy innuendo; a hilarious, altogether child-like delight at fruit.

It was torture and still he loved it.  He lived to give his Soldier the pleasure that made him less a _thing_.  Knew the second he came out, board-like, eyes shut, treated like a slab of meat, that he-the handler- was lost again.  Brock was careful not to give the game away.  He never sat too close.  Never lingered too long on the accent that enticingly hopped borders,  or on plush lips, or unusually fine hands…

It was brutal stuffing down the attraction, not reaching in the carrier to mop blood upon a cheek.

Some days that deception had been the hardest of them all. It could be a heavier load than double dealing, than deceiving Steve and STRIKE even as he wove his way through Pierce’s shadow games. 

To be here and now was the lightest he had been in years.

Silver fingers snapped suddenly by his ear. “Hey..” 

 He blinked and looked up to find that stubbled handsome face creased by a faintly worried frown.  ” Brock…you’re drifting.”

Was he?    He _was_ brutally stiff from sitting long and The Pain was building up.  How long had he been lost in thought?  Too long, for Tom’s album had moved on and another guitar was softly whining in his ear. 

“Sorry..I…”  But then he groaned.  Pain was rapidly clawing awareness back.  _Oh shit, oh fuck._   He had lost track of time and they were suddenly outside the zone: the buffer where he could cope.  _Idiot._   A few panting breaths were needed to slow his panicked racing heart, but the mountain still rose too fast.

James shook his head, reached across and fumbled with something on the other seat.  “Here..” he said, passing over a thin paper tube.  Brock stared, gobsmacked, at an expertly rolled joint.     “Take off the edge, while I get your cocktail up.”

He wanted to laugh.  The uncharted skills the Soldier had accumulated over seventy plus years never ceased to amaze.   Time was there would’ve been a dealer on every corner in the Heights.  Not now.  James must have cased things out.  Against a moment such as this.  

He breathed shakily, accepted a light and pulled the sweet smoke into his lungs.  Held it forever and let it smother the choking pain.  It was good shit.  No way was James a newbie on the score.

“You’ve done this before,” he said when he could breathe again. 

“Mhmmmmm.  You’re not the first guy I’ve purloined stuff for.”   

 _Or nursed_ came the sudden, liquid crystal thought.  

James rose, set him gently upon the webbed lounge chair and ducked his head through the rooftop door.   The sound of his footsteps receded down the stairs. 

Brock leaned back, rested gingerly against the mesh and closed his eyes. 

The weed did wonders for many types of pain.

 

\--------------

 

June turned to July and he could only put off the inevitable for so long. 

It was not because he did not want it-Jesus christ he positively _ached_ to be a part of him, to go beyond their usual making out - but a certain well-developed sense of self-preservation told him it would be harder in the end.

The first time he said no.  The third and fourth he had slightly growled.  The fifth he lied and said he was too stiff.

The sixth he looked into the pleading puppy eyes and simply, madly, stupidly, gave in.

Tom Waits had been on the ipad once again.

A warm hand helped steer him to the room.  He needed it; he was not entirely steady, almost dizzy with relief.   It was late.  The moon was up and the rabid rats of pain had slunk back into their hidey holes (for a while, just a little while) and he found he wanted- needed- to feel something other than pathetic.    

With a groan Brock sunk, stiffly and inelegantly, onto their double bed.   The room, like the rest of the house, was tastefully and blandly decorated in light innocuous colours designed not to over stimulate. All the furniture was made of wood, carved simply and accented by too-soft cushions that did nothing to prop him up.  Once or twice they had, quite satisfyingly, ripped.

James, his cheeks rosy pink from laughing, stood straddling his knees and smiled down at Brock like he was the sun.  Steady hands helped strip off his shirt, carefully and gently, as if he were a little kid and wasn’t that heaven and hell both.   He could not imagine a time when he would not feel cheated by that thought; they will get no chance now to love rough and hard.  His body is no longer made for such.   Looking up into the seaglass eyes his breath caught in his throat.    

Perhaps it did not matter after all.  To see James like this- confident, in the driver seat, alive with simply living and so utterly relaxed -it was almost ( _not quite_ ) worth it to have lost.  

Both hands pushed him gently to the bed and their eyes met; twin pools of knowing above the lurid mottling.   Though the skin no longer burns the knowledge of it does.

Silent language was helpful once again.

James’ fingers run deftly amongst the wreckage.  “Beautiful.”   Brock made a sound that is half of need and half of worry both.  Some nerves don’t feel and some feel all too much…  “You are still beautiful babydoll…”   He must learn to trust those hands. 

It is unspoken this arrangement that saw him laid out on his side and James behind, one hand upon his shoulder and one upon his hip.   It does not hurt to lie this way (the other side would have been impossible) and James was careful where he touched, stroking his thigh and teasing his neck with his lips. Warm breath fanned out across Brock’s nape and swooped down his collarbones, made flames of desire lick along his skin.  Brock exhaled and stretched. There is not much room below the shadow of James’ bulk but his attempt to loosen the tenseness of his back focused attention on something else.

He stills and blinks.  God but James felt good.  And huge.   

Clear thinking suddenly deserted him.  He groaned in a voice forever roughened by the smoke.  “Winter....”   

James’ long hair fell forward to shield his face as he chuckled once again.  _His_ voice, now clearer from frequent use, is smug.  “Made you forget my name already.”   The chuckle was sweeter than the music winding lazily in the air.

A hand, cool and heavy, yet oddly gentle, slid up his side and Brock briefly closed his eyes to focus on the feel.  If he concentrated, turned his awareness from the scars, he could almost feel the plates adjust minutely, and holy shit that thought was arousing too.

James hummed softly and hugged himself to Brock’s long back, his backside, and his thighs, lifted his flesh hand from off his shoulder and rested the palm on his ass cheek instead. 

Brock remembered a little boldness of his own, covered the metal hand with his and pushed it towards his cock lying heavy and hot against dark hair.  He thanked every god in heaven the tac gear protected _something_ from the flames before an insistent nudge along his spine brought him back.  

Kisses, pressed slowly to each inch of still tawny skin, pepper him with tiny butterflies of wet.  First they are warm and then they cool, a contrast that makes him shudder even as James’ graceful muscles rippled below smooth skin.   He has shifted once again, has lifted Brock’s upper leg and slid it upward toward his chest, leaned forward slightly to enfold him carefully into his embrace.

There was a whisper of pain from Brock’s stiffened back but he ignored it.  His heart was melting into a pool of happiness and this was enough to know at present.  

A beige and boring pillow was, gratefully, placed below his knee.   

James loved him.  It was written in the care and attention of this dance; in the days that he stood by.  He knew it.   Or at least he knew that he loved him as much as a man could after being scooped and hollowed out by a lifetime of cold command.   If Brock suspected that way inside, in the expansive, patient chambers of James’ heart, there lay another, one who once ~~still?~~  loved Steve Rogers, well that was another type of love.  All hearts and flowers and ‘what fate hath joined”.   James loved Brock for different things.  For hazy memories of warmth in a cold, unflinching lab.  For (once-impressive) muscles, dark fiery competence, and amber eyes that saw man more than machine. 

For respect, and comfort, but mostly for simply being there. 

He wasn’t proud.  Some days it had been enough. 

But now?  Scarred and red and stiff.  Barely able to hold a gun?  What could Winter want with that?   The answer came with the click of a plastic cap. It made him jump; made his swelling cock twitch; but before he could lose his nerve soft words of praise and encouragement were said.  Slick fingers began to circle slowly and explore his opening anew. Brock dropped his head, exhaled deeply, trying to ready himself: it had been some time but his body still remembered, accepted the intrusion.  He wanted to laugh, giddy with relief and desire both.   _That_ was not truly pain. 

A fleeting moment of cool emptiness then James rocked forward with his hips. Something truly challenging pushed slowly all the way inside but a hungry mouth was merciless on his neck; a demanding hand was merciless on his cock.  He wanted to cry out but found himself panting happily instead.  _So good_.   A wave of pleasure ran before the tide within his blood.  James grunted with each forward thrust of hip. 

Oh god he needed this, needed _him_ and so Brock craned his neck, seeking more contact, finding lips and tongue for a sloppy kiss.  In the turn, a thick ridge of scar slid awkwardly across James’ collarbone.  He could not hold back the yelp of pain.

Hips stilled instantly and worried wintergreen finds amber in the dark.  “Are you…?” 

“Go on,” he growled, because he could not change every part of him even if something had burned away.

The huff of breath was skeptical.  He felt the dark brows scowling on his back.

“But if I hurt you?”

“No.”

Slick metal fingers went slack upon his still rigid cock and warm flesh ones brushed gently through his hair.   Below, his lashes grew unexpectedly quite wet.  He had been afraid of pain, of barriers to break through but now that he has come this far he wants it.  Wants this.  He needed to feel..   _so much_. 

 “Please…”

The next thrust was sure but gentler, a counterpoint to the metal arm that held him now more solidly it is embrace. A dimpled chin hooked across his shoulder; enforced a line designed not to abrade as hips sped slowly up.

 _Bliss._  His lover was all around and in him-fingers, hard flesh and all that gorgeous and gorgeously-enhanced skin.   Everything was pounding heat and energy and white stars that fell down from the velvet sky when a certain angle was achieved.  A miraculously slick metal hand pumped steadily along his cock.

 “Oh James…oh fuck…” 

He shuddered, once, from toe to tip and with the blaze of his release James gasped and cried aloud.   It was harsh and high but nothing like the fierce strings of foreign words he was used to hearing from behind the black mask in the field.  “ _Stipan_.”  

After an eternity of pounding hearts James gave a long contented sigh, dropped a kiss to the tumbling pulse at his neck, slipped carefully out of his body and the bed.  A warm wet washcloth was brought quickly back.  And water.  His soldier was being ridiculously attentive, showing caring in his doing and it made his heart contract. 

Brock rolled over onto his back, bit his lip, but accepted soreness with perfect grace.  He wanted to see the message in dark-lashed, sea-blue eyes but the lamp was out.  There was not enough light to see. 

 With a pang he wondered if James ever suspected deception on his part. Brock had never worn his heart upon his sleeve, could not begin to explain himself, and they had long been immersed in subterfuge.   He was uncomfortable with words too deeply felt, but thought there was honesty in stillness too. 

James, as if he sensed something of his partner’s doubt, smiled lazily, nestled down carefully beside and drew a line with a forefinger from Brock’s navel to his heart.  Leaned in and pressed a kiss to Brock’s lips.   “ _Bot._   Here. It resides in here.”   

Red ridged fingers raised up and cupped that handsome cheek, before fiercely pressing back.  Delight and hope pulled somersaults in his stomach.  

They had always been on borrowed time-stolen interludes between the rush of boredom or tamped-down fear.    This much of James was a luxury beyond compare but it, too, was like a drug, and he was becoming addicted all too fast.

 _Becoming?_   _You fucking idiot._   It was too late.  There was, now, no going back.

In the blue-green ocean awareness was growing steadily every day.  The man who had adored a legend was slowly gaining hold.  Elbowing his way into the present and making his presence known.  Soon enough the one man they cannot evade would find them.  Soon enough another name would fall willingly from those pouty lips.

And he was not the only one who’d said a name wrong in that night.

A finger rubbed tenderly along a reddened lip.  How easy to say old words and gain the upper hand… though the very thought of it made him in sick.

 _“No.”_   he muttered to himself.   James did not hear it.  He had fallen asleep, considerately not too close, left his partner enough space to shift steadily and uncomfortably.  Brock lay beside and watched the moonlight through the slats bend across the room. 

In their high-ceilinged, century-belle of a living room the song repeated for the twenty- second time but he did not have the energy to get up. 

For now he had this music and this dawn and the warmth of a cherished cheek.

It would have to be enough.  After all, Brock had only borrowed what belonged to someone else. 


End file.
